The Lines are Blurred
by DamnI'mRandom
Summary: In which John tries to get Sherlock to unwind by taking him to a club. Dancing and kissing ensue! For the lovely laura4992. Johnlock.


_I own nothing, as usual. Everything belongs to the BBC and the late Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Based on a prompt by __laura4992__,who wanted John and Sherlock in a club, with dancing, Blurred Lines and kissing! This one's for you, __laura4992__. _

…

'But John –'

'Sherlock.'

'I could've –'

'_No_, Sherlock.'

'But –'

'_Sherlock.'_

'_Fine.'_

'You need to calm down.'

'_Calm down?'_ Sherlock asked incredulously. 'John. You _know_ me.'

'What I _know_ is that you need to stop obsessing over this case.'

'I could've solved that case faster!'

'But you solved it, right?'

'Doesn't make up for it.'

'Well, good for us I have a plan for the evening.'

'With one of your endless girlfriends, no doubt,' Sherlock snorted, not meeting John's eyes, trying not to show the needle of hurt that shot through him at the thought. 'Who was the last one again – Rhea?'

'No, I broke up with _Alicia_ a _week_ ago. We just weren't compatible.'

'Oh.'

'Yeah. I know _just _where to go, and _you_ are coming with me.' John smiled ecstatically as Sherlock's eyes lit up.

'John – ' he tried protesting, but John shook his head and came close to place a gentle finger to his lips. It sent a thousand watts of electricity jolting down his spine and he had to work hard to suppress the shiver he felt.

'You're coming.'

'Okay,' Sherlock whispered as John sauntered up the stairs to his room.

…

John was extremely nervous for a grown man who'd just forced his seemingly asexual flatmate (one could never be sure with Sherlock, so he went with _asexual_), with whom he shared a very _platonic_ relationship, to come clubbing with him. He didn't know what had made him do it, it was just _impulse_. He hated his guts sometimes.

(He was head-over-heels in love with Sherlock. The kind he'd experienced when he'd first set eyes on Kara Williams in his first year at Bart's. He didn't even try to deny it.)

But if he'd been trying to make a move – well, he'd damn well made one.

Oh, this was going to be a long and difficult night.

…

So he entered the living room an hour and a half later to find Sherlock sitting in his customary position – except for one big difference.

What _was_ he wearing?

John gaped.

'Erm, wh-what's that you're wearing?' That came out in a higher pitch than he'd expected.

Sherlock looked slowly up, his azure eyes catching hold of John's and pinning him to the ground.

This impossible, _impossible_ man oozed sex from every _inch_ of his being.

'John,' he acknowledged. 'This is standard clubbing wear. I simply want to blend in when we go there.'

John momentarily lost track of why he'd been staring.

'How did you know – wait, no, never mind. People usually don't wear tight leather trousers and boots and – ehm – that kind of j-jacket to go clubbing these days, Sherlock. You-you look great, though,' he added, trying to avert his eyes from Sherlock's long, leather-clad legs but finding himself unable to.

He wasn't sure, but he thought he saw Sherlock's cheeks pink a little.

'Thank you, John,' he purred.

'I'll – uh – I'll just be back, and we'll pop out in a bit, yeah?' John said weakly as he rushed back upstairs to the bathroom.

'Okay,' Sherlock called happily.

…

Sherlock Holmes had a reason to be happy. He'd proven a point, a point he'd been anxious to prove to himself for a while now.

_Attraction? Check._

There was no way he was getting out of these clothes now. Unless John was the one doing the undressing, of course.

…

The club, when they reached there, was dark, yet brightly lit with neon lights, exactly like he'd expected. It was supremely crowded, also like he'd expected. The music was loud and techno, hurting the ears. John was beside him, his face already flushed with excitement.

'Come on!' he called over the din. He took his hand and tugged him to the 'dance floor' where hundreds of sweaty people gyrated to the loud music.

'John, I can't dance,' he shouted back to his friend. (He was lying; he was actually a very good dancer on account of the dance lessons his mother had forced him to take from the ages of four to ten.)

'Neither can I, but who cares? Just let go!'

And in a way, he could see the appeal of the place. It was crowded, it was dark, the music was loud, and most importantly, no-one cared.

'Fine,' he said, smiling. John grinned back and said, 'I'll just get us some drinks.' He disappeared into the crowd.

Sherlock fought down a momentary flare of panic at being left alone in the middle of a crowd of people he didn't know. Until he heard the song that was on. Believe it or not, he'd actually heard the song and actually liked it, despite all the controversy surrounding it.

_Everybody get up,_

_Everybody get up._

_Hey hey hey,_

_Hey hey hey,_

_Hey hey hey,_

_Hey hey hey…_

He tapped his feet and swayed to the catchy beat, getting into the mood. After a while, he completely lost all inhibition and immersed himself into the music, letting his body twist and move in a rare display of flexibility. The whole world ceased for him and he danced only for himself. The only thing that brought him back to earth was John's gasp of surprise.

Oh, yes. John. Understandable. He _would_ be surprised.

'John,' he said, smiling wildly. 'Why aren't you dancing? Blurred Lines is on!'

John regained his composure somewhat, though his eyes still betrayed his surprise. 'I thought you said you can't dance,' he said teasingly.

'I lied. Is that for me? Thank you,' Sherlock replied casually, taking the shot glass from John and draining it in one gulp.

John stood dumbstruck at this completely new side to his friend. It was surprising. It was _sexy as hell_.

'_Dance_, John!'

'I think I'll pass. Like I said, I _actually_ can't dance, unlike _some_ people,' and here he dropped Sherlock a half-lidded, arousal-filled look, which made Sherlock blush visibly.

'Of course you can dance, John. Everyone can dance.'

'No, I'm really very extra sure that I can't.'

'Ah well, suit yourself.'

And then Sherlock, drawing sudden inspiration from the song playing, glided close to John mid-dance and, one hand on John's shoulder, whispered lightly in his ear, '_I hate these blurred lines… I know you want it, I know you want it…'_

John swallowed. He glanced down quickly – and yes, _of course_ he was hard. So very hard. Who wouldn't be? Damn, dancing so sexily in those tight leather trousers should be made illegal.

Sherlock, of course, caught the quick movement down and smirked in satisfaction. '_I know you want it,'_ he breathed again.

That was _it_ for John.

'Okay, enough,' he said, spinning around and _smashing_ his lips to Sherlock's. Sherlock's eyes widened and then, finally, closed in blissful oblivion. John's lips were warm, soft and tasted of alcohol. He _loved_ it. John's tongue poked the closed entrance to Sherlock's mouth, which parted of their own volition and allowed his tongue entrance.

When they finally broke apart, dizzy and gasping for oxygen, the people around them cheered – quite unusual for two guys snogging in the middle of the dance floor.

Sherlock smiled a little dazedly at John, who took his hand and whispered, 'We should go home.'

'Agreed.'

And they ran out of the club into the cold, clear night, giggling breathlessly.

…

_Thoughts?_


End file.
